Doom patrol Nobody someday
by albie
Summary: Are the Brotherhood of Dada up to their old tricks?


Nobody, someday  
  
"The internal computer alarm system is missing ten minutes and nine seconds from its chronometer readings. Ten minutes in which several strange and unexplained events took place, or seemed to take place. I have here, several accounts from certain members of staff from Halcom, which I have summarised for you. Firstly, the gate security reports of hearing a shrill noise, not unlike that of a high pitched voice. That's all they report. It seems they decided to take an early vacation. Investigators are still trying to locate a couple of the guards in question. Next is the internal guard, who it seems passed out from a mysterious nausea caused by all manner of 'odd and dizzy perspectives'. Interpret that how you will. The next event involves some kind of small explosion within the labs of the compound. A forensic investigation has found no sign of an incendiary device, and no shrapnel conducive to such damage. This in particular interests me, but I will digress. Next, a number of staff working late claim to have witnessed some kind of phantom effect involving one of the radiation suits from the lab. Apparently it got up and walked, and attacked them. It seemed to be after something in the typing pool."  
  
The Chief turned over the next page in the report.  
  
"All of the staff of Halcycom have been thoroughly questioned and certain results have been ascertained. Seventy percent of the staff experienced a feeling of being watched, not just during the day of the intrusion, but from a date stretching back at least a week. This is very important, Dorothy, please pay attention. I won't be passing out copies for homework assignments. Ok, next comes the dreams. It seems that many of the staff had dreams involving a high degree of the colour yellow. Yellow clouds, yellow rivers, yellow people and in one case a yellow brain."  
  
"A yellow brain?"  
  
"Yes Cliffe, a yellow brain. The theme of yellow seems to grow from the beginning of the week, on a par with the feeling of being watched, reaching a hiatus on the day of the robbery... "  
  
"Robbery? What was taken?"  
  
"Well, Cliffe, I will get to that. Anyway, both the paranoia and the yellow dreams seem to have abruptly ceased after the night of the robbery. Both symptoms must of course be taken into extreme consideration. They at least came to the right man then..."  
  
"The right TEAM, Chief. The right TEAM."  
  
"Indeed, Cliffe. The right TEAM. Now, as to what this was all about..."  
  
A light and yet manly voice gave a sudden and musical answer. A voice that could have belonged to anyone, and yet only to one person.  
  
"The theft of a painting."  
  
The Chief flicked his eyes to the floating form of Rebis. Rebis of the threefold mind. Rebis of the godly majesty. Rebis, his greatest creation to date.  
  
"Yes, a Pollack. How did you know? Have you been reading minds again, Ouroboros? You know, I really must do some vital and in-depth investigation into your mental talents soon."  
  
Rebis transported himself towards the silent TV on top of the fridge, and turned up the sound. A female newsreader was detailing the atrocities in Yugolsavia. Describing in digestible form, the killing and torturing onslaught of the on going apocalypse. The slow burning holocaust of the body of mankind, womankind, and all the things in between. The attractive newsreader smiled, punctuating the start of the final, light hearted morsel of news. "...art experts tally the latest cost of this recent rash of painting theft as reaching the billion pound level. Priceless and not so priceless works in oil, goache, watercolour and ink have disappeared from as many as fourteen countries in the last month. Such a move has been slammed as being 'pointless and downright nasty' by noted English art historian Brian Sewell, today, who himself has taken on the role of personal guardian of a selection of works currently hung up in the Tate Modern gallery, situated in London. The white haired art enthusiast has set up camp beneath Turner's.."  
  
Rebis flicked the Tv over. An Australian soap took the place of the bad news.Tan replacing tan. Surgical smile replacing surgical smile. Dorothy rushed to watch, her strong jaw grinding with excitement.  
  
"Don't you watch TV, Caulder?" Rebis said, before floating out of the recreation room door, leaving a trail of unanswered questions that tingled on the tongue. The Chief slowly folded up his report from Halycom and slipped it between his thighs.Then he activated his motorised wheelchair and zipped, almost silently towards the fridge. He wanted some chocolate milk, and quick. Dorothy smiled at him, unveiling her sharp canine teeth. Caulder frowned.  
  
"It seems I have neglected to indulge in the commonality of the so called news report, Dorothy. Maybe someone could clue me in."  
  
Cliffe Steele got up from his industrial strength armchair, producing a faint hiss of pneumatic gears and servomechanisms. As he followed Rebis out of the room with a series of heavy footfalls he chuckled, with just a mere hint of electrical reverberation. Dorothy turned to Caulder. Her brown eyes full of the trials and tribulations of Aussie life, and much, much more besides.  
  
"It's the Brotherhood of Dada again, isn't it."  
  
Caulder shut the fridge door, armed with half a litre of Choco-Shocko. It felt cold in his grip, like a brick of soft metal. It would taste the same as it always did, like over-sweatened chocolate milkshake. What else? Yet he drank it. Nothing could stop him drinking it. They would have to cut his head off before he stopped drinking it. And even then... He wrestled with the straw, rescuing it from its loose, cellophane skin.  
  
"Yes, Dorothy. It's the Brotherhood. The blessed Brotherhood of Dada. Back to threaten our reality, and our poor sense of humour, once again."  
  
He stabbed the naked straw into the carton.  
  
"But, who are we to keep a good man down, eh?" 


End file.
